Neverland: Rewritten
by xoWriteToBeMexo
Summary: When you hear of Neverland, you think of: mermaids, Indians, treasure, Peter Pan, tick-tock tick-tock, second star to the right, never growing up, pixie dust, the Lost Boys and, of course...Hook. But what if everything you think about Neverland, is wrong?


**Chapter 1 - Falling**

A laughing bundle of strawberry blonde hair squirmed on my bed. "Lena! Lena, _stop_! I'm gonna pee my pants!"

Immediately, I stopped tickling my baby sister, Sophie, plopped myself down on the bedside, and put her on my lap. I cast her one of those _you-do-that-and-I'll-rip-off-your-stuffed-bunny's-head _looks. She knew I would never _really _do it, but the threatening look worked every time.

At that moment, the exact likeness of the five-year-old on my legs came walking through my door. Only this one was wrapped in her purple fairy dress matched with a pair of net wings attached at the back. The chiffon buckled angrily, and I wondered if she'd been sitting on the floor with her dolls for the past half-hour.

Abigail waved her glowing pink fairy wand, which had a star tip, in my face. "Why is Sophie screaming like the Barbie Dreamhouse is burning down again?"

The Barbie Dreamhouse hadn't burnt down – at least, not _completely. _It had caught fire when we had lit some candles on Christmas Eve a few weeks ago. Dad had draped a blanket – my mother's favorite cashmere quilt – over the wooden house and extinguished the flame. The house was saved, but its west wing needed reconstruction and my sisters had bugged me to paint the sitting room walls cotton candy pink to cover the smoke marks.

"She's screaming because the ugly Captain Hook is on the hunt for little Princess Abigail, _again_," I snarled, putting Sophie aside on my bed and chasing after a squeaking Abigail, who made a dash for the hallway and, in her pink slippers, ran for dear life.

I caught her right before she made it to our parents' bedroom, and would have slammed the door in my face, no doubt. With one arm around her tiny waist, I scooped her up and flopped with her onto the king-size bed that would stay empty once again tonight. Our parents were at yet _another _benefit dinner, which they did almost every weekend.

I clawed my index finger like it was the ruthless pirate's silver hook. "I'm the captain of the _Jolly Roger_," I said in a deep, rumbling voice with a lilt in my accent. "I'll slice you with my hook from your belly button to your nose!"

Abigail buried her face against my shoulder and giggled. She burst into laughter like a volcano exploding as soon as I dug my fingers between her ribs.

There was nothing in this world that delighted me more than the sound of the twins' laughter. Their carefree temperament caught me every time, whether I was stuck in the middle of my studies, or helping Miss Dorothea with the household.

My parents didn't like me giving our stone-aged housekeeper a hand in the kitchen. _"Girls from a first class family do _not _get their hands dirty_," was what my mother instilled in me. I wasn't allowed to play in the mud with other kids, nor could I wear torn jeans with hoodies, or listen to alternative music in my room without headphones on.

When the twins' nanny moved away last spring, and my parents couldn't find a replacement that did an equally good job as the previous, my chance for a change had come. I offered to watch the girls on weekends, if my parents would allow me to wear _normal _clothes instead of the expected blouses, pantsuits or classy dresses – at least inside of the house, and as long as we weren't expecting any guests for a dinner banquet.

My mother agreed after a long discussion dominated by sighs. Dad insisted they keep looking for a new nanny, but when the twins made their huge puppy eyes at him, he gave in. No one in the Donovan family could resist Sophie or Abigail's soulful looks when they pushed the pretty-please button.

Dad's condition to let me wear my own choice of clothing inside was that I would have to meet Declan Coyne, the son of his business partner, who apparently was related to my father's boss. I agreed, but later nailed Dad down on the fact that the deal was: I only had to date the guy if I liked him at least a _little. _Which I absolutely did _not._

Declan Coyne was a jerk. He was tall, thin, wore his oiled black hair in a deep side part and drank tomato juice at _every _meal he ate, which again came out through his nose if something absolutely _not _funny made him laugh.

I grabbed Abigail by her waist and sat her on her feet. "Now you have to make the bed again," she stated airily, waving her wand at me.

I obeyed. Miss Dorothea made the twins' bed at least five times a day to keep my parents appeased, since they were sticklers for tidiness. I made my own bed every morning and tried to keep it that way until the evening, which didn't happen often so I remade it as often as Miss Dorothea made the twins' beds.

But to frolic with my sisters in my parents' bed was a sacrosanct no-no. We weren't even allowed in this room. But my parents were out, so who would stop us from turning the mansion into a playground for a few hours?

I pulled at the sheets' ends and smoothed them with my palms until they were perfectly straight again. Abigail left me alone and probably went back to her room to continue playing tea party with her dolls.

As soon as I flicked off the light in the room and stepped out into the wide, carpeted hallway, Sophie skipped into my arms. I lifted her up and wondered why she was grinning like a birthday clown. It_ usually _meant she had a brilliant idea, _or _that Miss Dorothea smuggled some homemade cookies into the Donovan household, which happened just this afternoon.

"What is it, Soph?" I asked and raked my fingers through her long, straight hair that was thick like weeds.

"I have a surprise for you."

_Uh-oh. _Her last surprise gave me a strand of green hair. _Thank goodness finger paint isn't a permanent dye. _

I shrouded my grimace with a fake smile. "Great! Let's see it."

"It's a tattoo."

"The hell?!"

Sophie instantly covered her mouth with her tiny hands and sucked in a shocked breath, but I didn't care. My parents weren't present to send me to my room for swearing. In a slight panic, I put my sister down, squatted in front of her, and shoved up the sleeves of her red panda-bear sweater, one at a time, checking her arms for images of any kind.

She giggled. "Not me, silly!"

_Phew. _My mother would have killed me.

"I want to write your name," Sophie informed me matter-of-factly.

"What?" I inquired simply, raising an eyebrow.

She held out her hand and uncurled her fist. In her palm were small markers of various colors. No doubt she wanted to mark me up from head-to-toe. Besides my name, 'Lena', was the only thing they could spell. On their demand, I had to teach them – over an entire week.

"And just _where _are you going to put this 'tattoo'?" I wondered aloud, chortling.

"We can put it on the inside of your arm. You always wear those sweaters, so Mommy won't see it," Sophie suggested.

_Who can ever say no to a hopeful, heart-shaped face like that? _I blew out a resigned breath and made a mental note to scrub the marker off tomorrow morning before joining my family downstairs in the dining room for breakfast. "Alright. Let's do it."

I ushered her across the hallway, and into the bathroom. The light came on as soon as we opened the door and reflected in the shiny peach-and-white tiles all over the place. I sat down on the edge of the oval white tub and watched the busy little girl pull out the stool from under the porcelain sink so that she can step on it and reach my arm.

In a matter of minutes she had my name scribbled out on the inside of my left forearm in different colors. When she was finished and radiantly happy, Abigail appeared in the doorway. "What are you two doing in here?" she asked and planted her little fists on her hips. For once, she hadn't brought her wand.

"I tattooed Lena's name on her arm," Sophie informed her.

"_Really_?" Abigail danced over to us, clapping her hands when she saw the result. "It's so _pretty_. Lena, you have to leave this on _forever_."

"Why? So I can use my forearm as a cheat sheet in case I forget my name?"

Sophie scrunched up her face. "What's a _jeet jeet_?"

"It's something you have in…_ah, _never mind." It was better to change the topic and save myself from being dragged into another what-and-why inquisition that always left me with a headache.

Downstairs, the tall grandfather started chiming nine o'clock. "Time for bed, kiddos!"

The twins shared knowing smiles, because getting ready for bed started in the same way whenever we were alone at home. Everybody found a spot in Sophie's bed, Abigail brought a book, and I would read. We did this before all of the other stuff, like brushing their teeth and changing into their pajamas, because Abigail liked to keep her costume on until the very last minute.

I sprawled out on the bed, leaning against the headboard, and allowed my sisters to curl up on either side of me and opened the book that Abigail had handed to me. It was _Peter Pan. _I wasn't surprised, of course. This was the twins' _favorite _story, and I've read this book to them numerous of times.

The twins would also speak every single line while I would read it to them.

With the girls pressed to my sides, I soon got warm in the heated room. I pulled my sweater over my head and tossed it at the end of the bed, then continued reading aloud:

"'_The pirate took the children aboard his mighty ship, the Jolly Roger," _all three of us said with the same dramatic edge to our voice. "'_He tied them to the mast in the middle and laughed into their frightened faces. The dirty crew hurrahed their captain, each waving a flag in the air in their hands. For they all knew, today was the day that Peter Pan would lose the battle.'"_

"Oh, _no_!" Abigail whined when I took a breath and turned the page. "What if the ugly Captain Hook catches him this time?"

I rolled my eyes. She knew _exactly _how this tale went. But every time we read it, she got sucked into the story so much that her fears seemed genuine and her tiny hands clenched into shaking fists.

I let the girls look at the pictures for a while, before we revealed the ending together and everyone took a relieved breath – including me. I didn't know why I did it. Possibly because of the twins' infectious excitement whenever I read the story of Peter Pan.

I shut the book and put it back on Sophie's nightstand. We would surely read it again tomorrow night. The girls knew what came next, and without complaints they both headed into the bathroom, that connected their two rooms, to brush their teeth.

While they were gone, I opened the French doors that led to a semicircle balcony. In the moonlight the slowly falling snowflakes looked like a romantic rain of stairs.

A cold breeze wafted around my body. Goosebumps raised on my bear arms and reminded me that the doors that led to my balcony had been open for the past couple of hours. I quickly shut the cold out from my sister's room and headed back to mine.

It was freezing cold in there, but before I closed the doors, I couldn't resist stepping out into the dancing flakes. I dragged my feet through the thin layer of snow on the concrete balcony, leaving a trail with my shoes.

My hands braced on the marble railing, I tilted my head skyward and caught some snowflakes with my mouth. The flakes melted away on my tongue and more kept falling on my face where they got caught in my lashes. It was the time of the year that I liked best – everything was calm and peaceful outside.

I peered down at our wide English garden and imagined a deer coming out from behind the few trees at the very back, and yet nothing happened. We lived just outside of New York City. There was no city bustling around here, but we were still too far away from any woods to glimpse a deer or rabbit scurrying around.

"Lena!"

With my mouth still open and my tongue lolling out to catch more snow, I turned to the left and found Abigail out on Sophie's balcony. We were separated only by three meters of space and the crown of a common ash tee planted close to the house between our balconies.

I straightened. "What's wrong?"

"You forgot your sweater." She held out my black sweater in her tiny hand.

"Toss it over!" I walked to the left side of my balcony and stretched out my arms to catch the bundle of fabric. But her aim was just as bad as my mother's taste in music, and the sweater landed in the top of the tree.

"_Nooo_," I groaned, sighing, and leaned over the railing as far as I could, but there was _no way _I could grab the sweater. It was caught in the many twigs and branches.

It was only a few inches away, so I got a hold on the façade of the house and climbed onto the road marble balustrade. This way I was able to lean farther out and finally reach one sleeve. My fingers around it, I went to step off the railing again, but it was slick from the snow, and I slipped.

A high-pitched cry burst out of my throat as I struggled to catch my balance. I prayed that, somehow, I'd come down on the inside of my balcony. But when I caught a glimpse of Abigail's horrified face as I fell, I knew this was going to hurt.

* * *

**A/N: **_For as long as I can remember, I've always been a fan of J.M. Barrie's story of Peter Pan: The Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up. I find it simply fascinating, but I couldn't help but wonder...what if we've had it all wrong? _

_And then the gears in my head started turning and...BOOM. Lol. I've taken advantage of creative license and changed some things around. I take **no credit **for creating Peter Pan, the Lost Boys, Neverland, Tinker Bell, Hook, etc. They belong to the genius who was Mr. Barrie. _

_I hope you enjoy the new characters that I introduce, and the old characters that you will be re-introduced to. _

_Here's to never growing up..._

_Cheers!_

_P.S. Reviews are greatly appreciated :) Please feel free to leave some feedback on what you thought! _


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